


White Picket Fences

by zulu



Series: Lie To Me [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: 08-05, M/M, for:deelaundry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-19
Updated: 2008-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson changes things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Picket Fences

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to thedeadparrot for the beta.

**White Picket Fences**

Wilson swept into House's office and planted his hands on the desk. "You're an idiot."

House looked around the edge of his medical journal, frowning up at Wilson doubtfully over the rims of his glasses. "Haven't tried to kill myself lately, so--"

Wilson did a ridiculous little flail, that seemed to be half victory dance and half epileptic fit. "No," he said, pointing accusingly at House. "_I'm_ an idiot."

House let the journal drop and tossed his glasses after it, rolling his eyes and flipping a mental coin on whether this would be a lecture or a bout of self-recrimination. "I'm pretty sure that one's not my fault."

"I can't believe I let you do this to me," Wilson yelped--it was definitely a yelp--and started pacing around the office, muttering under his breath.

House reached for his cane and started edging his legs off the desk. "If there were amphetamines in your coffee again, then it _definitely_ wasn't my fault," he said.

"You pushed me out _and I let you_," Wilson said. "That's exactly what you were hoping for! You _expected_ me not to push back!"

House stood up as quickly as he could. Last summer, he could have sprinted out of the room before Wilson had a chance to corner him.

Last summer, he wouldn't have run. He'd learned Wilson in this mood--strung out and excited and incredulous--and he knew exactly how to divert all that energy with a smirk, a quip, a kiss. He'd get Wilson laughing and horny, then he'd push him down on his couch or Wilson's hotel bed and climb on top, to get sweaty and sticky and messy in the most perfect way possible. Afterwards, he'd leave his palm, accidentally, on Wilson's chest, to feel his heartbeat and the last of his breathless chuckle, his whole body warm and turned stupidly fulfilled.

It wasn't last summer, though, and House only wanted to get his crippled ass out of here before Wilson wound up to his "you deserve to be happy" speech, as if it would mean anything more than it did last time. They'd had two months of happy. Now they had their friendship back--barely--and House didn't want to risk anything more than to leave it at that.

Wilson saw him sidling away, though, and he stepped in front of him, stopping him with a hand on his chest. "You're the one who changed things," he said. He stared at House like that was supposed to mean something deep and profound, like he could change House's mind just because his eyes were dark and a little lost.

"I think it's five o'clock somewhere," House said, weakly, but doing his best to get out of this conversation. It was actually much later than that. The only light was the desk lamp, throwing a small puddle of luminance over a pile of papers. The hallway was deserted. House frowned suddenly, wondering if this was all an act, if Wilson had planned it. "Strippers and chicken wings," he offered, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "First round's on me."

Wilson shook his head. "No," he said. "It's my turn to change things, House."

He'd been right. Wilson had planned this. He had no idea why now, but it wasn't easy to think up reasons when Wilson was stepping forward, determined, mouth inches away; and then he paused. House tilted his chin and saw Wilson swallow. "So you're changing things," he said, and tried to sound resentful.

"Yeah," Wilson said, but he wasn't. He was just _standing there_, and House had to close his eyes because it was as if once Wilson got within six inches of him, House could feel him everywhere. He remembered the way Wilson would let him fuck him, lowering himself on House's dick, leaning back. His right hand reached behind him and gripped House's left thigh as if to force him still, while his left hand gripped his cock and slow, slow, stroked, one shuddering swipe up to the head, an uncontrolled jerk down to his balls. House forced his hips up and managed one amazing thrust before Wilson pinned him again. He stared at Wilson's mouth, open, gasping, his face and chest flushed, nipples tight, the muscles of his stomach tensing quick and light as he panted. House was buried deep inside him and hardly able to _breathe_ because he was too busy watching every moment, feeling every movement.

"House," Wilson said, and House opened his eyes. "Don't tell me no."

When the pain had come back last fall, all House could think was no. He didn't want Wilson's eyes and hands on the scar, his pity when House was drugged to impotence, his insistence that the pain didn't _mean_ anything, that it didn't _matter_. But now his leg hurt but his chest ached more, and he was getting hard in his jeans, and Wilson was so close.

House shook his head, and it didn't mean no. Wilson licked his lips--House wanted to taste them, to suck his tongue into his mouth and kiss him--but Wilson moved first, hands gripping House's wrists lightly, mouth brushing against his.

House moved into the kiss. He wanted to say, "This won't work," and "You really _are_ an idiot," but instead he shook loose of Wilson's hold and shoved a hand around his back, under his shirt--untucking it and rucking it up over his waist--and this hadn't changed, this was completely familiar--and he kissed him even deeper, because there was no way in hell he was going to apologize for ten months of _not_ doing this.

So he was back on Vicodin, and neither jail nor stealing a dead man's drugs--not hurting Wilson in every way he could think of and a few others that he hadn't thought of, only allowed to happen despite himself--had been enough to drive him away. Maybe those ten months had been enough of a test (he'd driven Stacy away in less), because Wilson's hands were moving on his chest, and down to his crotch, and his breathing was ragged in House's ears.

"God," House said, pushing forward into Wilson's palm. Pleasure and anticipation roared through him so loudly that he could barely hear his own doubts, and he was certain he'd been the one to teach Wilson how to manage _that_. "You had to wait until _now_?"

"I didn't know until now," Wilson said, and House was right--he was laughing and turned on and everything House had ever wanted.

"You're not an idiot," House admitted, kissing him again, ready at last to see where this would go. "You're just a little slow."

_end_


End file.
